


Beating Hearts and Bloody Eyes

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Jaskier, Hugs, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, injured Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23835319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: After a long fight Geralt stumbles back to camp exhausted and half dead on his feet. Luckly Jaskier is there to do his best to patch the Witcher back together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 191





	Beating Hearts and Bloody Eyes

Geralt slumped down with a heavy groan. The fight had been hard. It had sapped his energy. Not that he had had much to begin with, Lord knows he hasn’t been sleeping well recently. The fight had been slow, drawn out, letting time drain him of his remaining strength. Until exhaustion made him sloppy, the blood dripping down his arm, slowly pooling in the crease of his elbow was testament enough to that. But then sloppiness had given way to luck, and in one deft movement, flesh met blade, the air filling with an unholy shriek, and then it was done, he had won, story over. 

Exhaustion had made the walk back to camp feel almost as treacherous as the fight itself. Still, soon enough it too was done. And there he was, sat on a log beside the low burning fire, little strength left to give mind to his wounds or the splatterings of blood, already soaking through his clothes, cold against his flesh. So instead he sat, unmoving, unthinking, focused only on breathing, on existing and being alive.

Slowly he became aware of the quick but gentle hands, dancing across his body to pry off his armour. They were careful, or as careful as they could be, trying to minimise how much Geralt had to move, had to contort his already injured body, to remove the thick leather as kindly as possible. Soon it was off, gone as far as Geralt was concerned, he did not see what happened to it, still too focused on his own heartbeat, on the trail of blood slowly running down from his hairline, and dripping, methodically, down his face, to notice anything else.

The hands didn’t seem to mind his lack of response. They continued on regardless, carefully teasing pieces of torn fabric out of his wounds, ripping away needless dangling strips of cloth to fully reveal the damage done to the flesh below. At some point the hands disappeared. Geralt didn’t have mind enough to notice the moment they left, but he gradually became aware of their absence, aware that all he felt now was the cold air against his skin. He could feel it dying any blood no longer free flowing in place against his skin. he wondered if it would stain the skin as it would a cloth.

He would not find out. The hands had returned, with water and something to clean his wounds. They started on the unmarked skin, scrubbing off the dried blood, stopping any chance of staining. Some of it was dry enough to flake off as the hands brushed against it, he wasn’t sure what of it was his and what wasn’t. Then they moved on, to focus on the fresh blood, the stuff he knew must be his, some of it still in the process of flowing out of him. He thought the hands where likely still trying to be kind here, not that it mattered. It didn’t matter how lightly they dabbed, the moment cloth touched those open, raw spaces where there once was skin but now no more, all he felt was pain. Each touch awakening nerve endings that had previously fallen mute, screaming out all at once.

At least now he had something to think about other than his heartbeat.

The hands disappeared again. This time for barely enough time for him to notice. They returned, to smear something into his wounds. It was soothing. At least once the initial jolt of pain from contact had passed and it became… cold. A good cold though, a gentle cold, not like the bite of the wind he now felt even more keenly against his bare skin. Then the hands became demanding, tugging on him, pulling his arm up, and out, so they could wrap something around the worst of the cuts. This hurt too, but not as much, or maybe it did, but it didn’t matter as much, because he had other things to focus on by now.

it was like he had slowly woken up from a dream. Now he could see beyond the blood dripping into his eyes, see the dirt under his feet, the fire, crackling in front of him, Roach, stood just in the edges of the fires glow, tail lazily flicking at any insects that accidentally wandered too close. He could see Jaskier, kneeling before him, attention fully centred on his task of carefully bandaging the Witcher’s shoulder. As though sensing his gaze Jaskier looked over, offering a small smile when he realised he was now being watched. Geralt did not smile back. He did not yet have the energy. Jaskier did not seem to mind. He turned back to his work and Geralt let himself get caught again, focusing on the hands, oh so gently tugging him into place, stitching him back together.

He knew that this time when they disappeared, they would not return. Perhaps that’s why he did it, reaching out with a level of speed he was surprised he could still manage, to grasp the slender wrist as it pulled away, having tied the last of the bandages in place. He spoke, the words heavy and slow on his tongue, having to tease themselves from his throat and out of his blood tinged lips.

“hold me.” If pressed he would put it down to exhaustion. Delirium. He hadn’t slept in days; he was so tired. He didn’t know what he was saying.

He knew, he could taste the words as they wormed their way out. He knew what they were, what he was saying, just like he knew how much he didn’t want to be alone. Alone with his heart, beating out that never ending rhythm against his chest; and the blood, never endingly dripping in his eyes.

“I…”

He let the slender wrist drop, let its owner decide its fate, he would not force it to stay in his grasp if it did not wish to be there.

“Please.”

“…Of course.”

The hands returned, wrapping him in gentle arms, no pressing or prodding or tugging this time, just.. holding, existing alongside him. He is not sure how long they stayed there, wrapped in embrace. They stayed until the fire had burnt down, shrinking from flicking flames to glowing embers. They stayed until his ears no longer rang with the never-ending rhythm of his heart, until the blood faded from his eyes. And he was present, and he was whole, and he was not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in about an hour to distract from real life, and how much i just want a hug. comments welcomed, thanks for reading.


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